


Differential Equations, Stalker Archangels, and Don't Forget the Pie

by nagapdragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dancing, Domestic, Fluff and Crack, Leviathan Castiel, Leviathans, M/M, Multi, Stalker Archangels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 03:59:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagapdragon/pseuds/nagapdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel breaks the wall in Sam's head, he expects to get the last obstruction out of his way before he can lead Heaven and destroy both Raphael and Crowley. He expects to cripple the Winchesters and take Purgatory for himself. Gabriel is dead, Lucifer and Michael will never come to an accord long enough to break out of the Cage, and Raphael won't be a problem for too much longer. There'll be nobody left to stop him.</p>
<p>Which makes it doubly a surprise when Michael and Lucifer rip their way out of the Cage to do just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drifting Realities

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, so a quick briefing on how much I'm breaking canon here:
> 
> 1) This fic picks up straight from when Cas breaks the wall in Sam's head at the end of S6 and diverges from there.
> 
> 2) I sort of needed Ellen and Jo for this one, and once I rescued them from certain death I had to grab Ash, too, so assume they built a new Roadhouse that just happens to be reasonably close to the bunker because isn't life convenient like that?
> 
> 3) Oh, and they have the bunker, because I didn't feel like writing motel room hopping. So... I guess don't question it. 
> 
> Ummm... that's about it for now. If you read the original two chapters of this fic, chunks of those will appear eventually, but I totally skipped all the exposition I needed so... that'll be fixed. Anyways, I'm always happy to talk over at my Tumblr- I'm nagapdragon there too.

_Sam_

Cas touches him, and the world explodes. 

Sam’s been through a lot in his life. Cuts and scrapes, broken bones and possession and all manner of nasty things. He’s been tortured mentally and physically, he’s been on the verge of collapse in the hospital, and he’s died in Dean’s arms. Nothing, not one bit of it, compares to the surge of memories suppressed behind the wall in his head. 

There’s screaming. Sam’s not sure if it’s him. He’s not even sure if it’s real.

The world coalesces around him again, but it’s not the right world, it’s Stull Cemetery and Cas is dead and Bobby is too and he can hear Adam returning, hear Michael’s wings and the Devil scratching at the inside of his head and he’s _falling, falling, falling_ and Lucifer is screaming in Enochian as they are all torn apart, two beings into four, and the Cage waits to meet them. 

The crunch of bones, his lungs filling with blood as his ribs puncture them, and no fading sensation as his life slips away. The Cage sustains them, growing skeletal with hunger and absolutely parched but unable to die, and he tried. Tried to kill Michael and Lucifer and Adam at least once each and tried to kill himself even more than that. 

Can’t kill anything that’s already dead.

Laughter burbles to the surface and snaps him back to reality, to this reality, to Dean’s concern and a sharp ringing in his ears. Cas stares at the ground, shocked, and the ringing snaps into a familiar sound, one that heralded the beginning of the end in a tiny chapel not that long ago. A sound that he never thought he’d hear again. 

Blood. 

The sound is worse than before, stronger, layers of pain one atop the other and Sam focuses on the warm trickle of blood from his nose, the iron tang painting his lips, anything but that _sound_. Angel speech, except sharper, angrier, and then he’s back in the Cage. 

‘Cage’ is a misnomer. 

Or rather, it implies something completely different than the reality. Cage implies a confined space with defined sides and a nasty padlock. No matter how the details change, a cage is always a confining structure, something physical to be fought against. 

The Cage, the proper noun, is an illusion. An illusion structured around Lucifer’s mind, a cage without bars, setting his consciousness and his Grace at odds. The Archangels are the only ones who still remember the construction of the Cage. The Office of Internal Affairs, who Lucifer calls the Office of the Inquisition, made sure of that. 

Sam’s seen it.

He’s seen everything in Lucifer’s head.

A dark cathedral in the center of Hell, the antithesis of everything Lucifer showed him of Heaven, with demon-proofing and angel-proofing scrawled in the blood of sacrificed angels. Wires drawn from his own Grace stretch from the foundations to the arching ceiling above, cutting deep into the archangel’s flesh where they wind around him and deeper still into the ruins of his wings where Michael ripped handfuls of feathers out. 

The construction of the Cage was not a physical task.

It was breaking Lucifer, forcing him to retreat from his physical form. 

It was torture. 

And they wondered why Lucifer hated his brother even after millennia in the Cage, millennia away from the machinations of Heaven and his brother’s betrayal. 

Lucifer screams in agony in his memories. Lucifer screams in rage in the present.

“Shame on my little brother,” the voice says from behind them. “I always thought Cassie was better than that. Alrighty then, let’s get you kiddos clear before Lucy and Mikey bust this place up.”

“Gabriel?” Dean exclaims as the hands come down on their shoulders, dragging Sam fully back into the present as they’re wrapped in a cloud of Grace. 

“You’re dead,” Sam manages, catching a glimpse of Gabriel’s true form through his vessel as the angel spreads his wings.

“Eh, Lucy underestimated me. Can’t take the trick out of the Trickster, amiright?” 

“Where have you been?” Dean challenges. “Apocalypse, civil war in Heaven, any of that ringing a bell?”

“Busy.”

Sam moans in pain and Gabriel moves his hand to his forehead. 

“Sleep, sasquatch. We’ll get you all fixed up.”

Sam sinks back into the darkness at the sound of wings.

He calls it the darkness, this formless space between dreams and reality. This is the place his visions come from, the place he retreated to when Lucifer possessed him. It is in this place that he can feel the ripple of magic around him through the psychic abilities he denies, through the demon blood in his veins and the thread of Grace that marks him as one of that crossed bloodline, those descended directly from Cain and Abel. 

He can feel Dean by his side, feel the resonance of his own cursed blood, his worry palpable in the tremors of his soul. There’s Gabriel, the radiance of his Grace almost hiding Dean from him, and when he focuses the archangel’s true form sharpens in his view. Gabriel is too tall and too thin, all long limbs and narrow bones, swathed in layers of gossamer robes embroidered with complicated patterns and Enochian glyphs, revealing only his face and his hands. Six wings spread behind him, sparking with his Grace, and Sam looks the archangel in the eyes. Gabriel tilts his head the same way he does in his vessel, considering him before his lips turn up into a mocking smile. 

Some things are still the same. 

“Why did you send me here?” _How did you send me here?_

“Toldja, Sammy, I’m going to fix you.” Gabriel’s voice, his true voice, rings out against Sam’s senses, overwhelming and yet not painful in this space. The angel stays where he is, not moving any closer, and Sam picks up the image of Gabriel slumped against the side of Sam’s bed with one hand holding tight to one of Sam’s, meditating. 

“Dean said the wall was a one-time fix. Said even Death couldn’t put it up a second time.”

“That’s why I haven’t fixed you yet, kiddo. Even I need help on this one. Cassie did a number on your head.” Gabriel sighs, pushing back the deep hood of his robes, letting his long hair fall freely over his shoulders. There are tiny braids dotted through Gabriel’s hair, silver charms that resonate with Grace not his own, and others made of stone and sinew and bone that feel more like the Trickster’s power than the Archangel. His true form is ancient and powerful in a way goofy Gabriel with his candy and his pornos aren’t. 

“Raphael isn’t going to help you. He hates my guts.” If Death said he couldn’t do it, then the only being powerful enough that Gabriel would need help has to be another archangel and there’s only one of them left. Well, two, since apparently Gabriel’s good enough at playing dead to fool Lucifer- Sam’s been inside the Devil’s head, he thought himself damned as a kinslayer. 

“Not Raphael, Sammy. Raphael’s got bigger problems, namely a brother who will be appalled with the state he let Heaven get into and Cassie’s little rebellion.”

“Lucifer,” Sam breathes.

The darkness chills, cracks of blue frost spreading across it, and Gabriel looks over his shoulder as another source of Grace lands next to Sam, drowning out Dean’s faint magical signature. This one is exquisitely familiar from their time cohabiting in Sam’s body and the confines of the Cage, yet far more alien than Gabriel at the same time. 

Sam turns. If he has to have an archangel at his back, he’d rather have Gabriel there. The worst Gabriel will do is kill Dean a couple hundred times. Lucifer might try to end the world.

Similarly to Gabriel, Lucifer’s true form is tall and thin, impossibly birdlike by human standards and wrapped in long robes. His robes are paler and brighter than Gabriel’s, befitting the Morningstar, and he has far fewer charms in his hair. Lucifer’s wings are tattered, missing chunks and with all the rest in disarray, from his time battling Michael in the Cage. 

Sam focuses on Lucifer, forcing his senses to see through the archangel’s projection and to reality- Lucifer, kneeling on the other side of Sam’s bed clasping his hand, with Dean watching both archangels suspiciously and painting the room with angelproofing. He watches for a moment, sees his own shallow breathing and the archangels’ vacant eyes, before he snaps back to the in-between realm. 

“How can you fix me?”

“Death could only put up a wall,” Gabriel begins, moving in to flatten himself against Sam’s back. “He could break the part of your soul away that was damaged by the Cage and block it off, but when Cassie broke the wall, it… splintered along the fault line.”

“Which is why I’m slipping between reality and memories.”

“You got it, kiddo.”

“So what do we do?”

“You let me in, Sam,” Lucifer says, mirroring Gabriel’s position against Sam’s front to whisper in his other ear. “And then I hold you together, the only being in the world who knows how your soul is supposed to fit together, and Gabriel…” Lucifer says something in Enochian to Gabriel, who replies in kind before switching to English.

“Not stitching, but more like soldering your soul together. There’s not even a proper word for it in Enochian, it’s so rarely attempted.” Gabriel’s voice is unusually solemn. “Death couldn’t do it, and I certainly couldn’t without Lucifer to keep you together.”

“It’s going to hurt, Sam,” Lucifer whispers. “You have to trust me.”

He flickers back to the Cage, back to Lucifer curled around him to protect him from Michael’s rage, his anger taken out on Lucifer’s delicate wings instead of Sam. To broken days when the pain of starvation and dehydration, those things that angels don’t need so the Cage was not designed for, got too much and Lucifer put him to sleep to avoid the pain. 

To lullabies murmured in Enochian and the cold caress of Lucifer’s Grace protecting his soul when Cas pulled his body and mind out of the Cage. 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

Sam drifts, barely conscious even in his own head, while Gabriel and Lucifer’s voices are a melody of Enochian around him. Lucifer is all around him, softening all the sharp edges in his head and filling his memories with the same eerie-sharp senses that were the hallmark of his time possessed by Lucifer before. At the same time, Gabriel is ever-present, a spark of light and heat that lingers as the archangel moves on. 

They shape dreams around him, fantastical places beyond anything he’s seen rendered in exquisite detail, giving him all manner of distractions while they work on his soul. Sam loses track of time- not that it was ever the easiest thing to measure in the dream world- and he starts to recognize each archangel’s hand behind his dreams. He wanders the Library of Alexandria, scrolls translating themselves before his eyes with Lucifer whispering context in his ear, and then he stands at a performance of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ in the Globe Theatre, Gabriel pointing William Shakespeare out and other notable persons with quips about all their personal lives. 

Lucifer takes him to see the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Magna Carta and the Treaty of Versailles. 

Gabriel takes him to see Mata Hari and the Hanging Gardens and the Iguazu Falls.

Lucifer retaliates with the first of the pacts that later became Hunters and the Men of Letters and the little grey fish flopping out on to land, and that’s when Sam realizes that this has actually become a competition between them.

Gabriel gives him the Garden of Eden and his family. More accurately, he gives Sam his family before he was really there, scenes of three-year-old Dean trying to share Mom’s lap with her pregnant belly and pancakes and his own baby shower. They let him stay there for a long time, see the highlights of his life, fireworks with Dean and a memory of Mom singing to him that he didn’t know he had and the day he got up his nerve to ask Jess out. 

When the Enochian stills in the not-air around him, they both appear by his side and show him _let there be light_ , flooding him with the sense-memories of the moment when everything began. 

And then Sam opens his eyes. 

Lucifer and Gabriel lift their heads back in their vessels- Lucifer’s in his old vessel, or at least a simulacrum of it, minus the nasty sores- and squeeze his hands before collapsing against the sides of his bed into a sort of angel-sleep to recover their Grace.

“Sam? You awake now?” Bobby comes over from a chair by the door, pressing his palm to Sam’s forehead like he’s seven years old again and caught pneumonia out in the rain on what should’ve been a simple salt and burn. 

“Yeah,” he croaks. 

“You just hold on there, kid. Adam’s finally woken up long enough to eat and Dean’s the only one Michael lets close to him.”

“Is-“ Sam stops to cough. “Is Adam alright?”

“Skinny as a rake, but Michael says there’s no permanent damage. His word is the best we’ve got- Ellen tried to get a good look at the boy and Michael damn near fried her.”

“Where is she?” If Ellen can’t be mothering Adam and both Dean and Jo are alright, he’d expect her to be waiting to feed him up like an invalid. 

“Took Jo to the new Roadhouse. Says it’s a disaster waiting to happen, leaving Ash in charge, and people will start asking too many questions if we’re all missing.” Bobby smiles, a soft look that Sam hasn’t seen since Bobby pretended to be John Winchester for Sam’s high school graduation ceremony. 

“Bobby, I don’t know what you did you deserve her.”

“Raised you brats, saved the world a couple times, figured out a way to keep us all alive when Lucifer was raising Death.”

Sam smiles. “I suppose that’d do it. Will you tell Dean I’m up? He can stay with Adam, but I don’t want him worrying.”

“Anything else you need?”

“Glass of water’d be nice.”

“Just this once, kid. Shout if either of those two gives you trouble.”

 


	2. Grilled Cheese and the Common App

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be labeled with POV- expect a lot of Sam because he's a little easier for me to write than Dean.

 

_Dean_

Life settles into a comfortable pattern. 

Well, it settles into a new one. One without Cas in it, and that hurts more than he lets on. Cas is locked up in Heaven, awaiting the judgement of the Archangels, and Dean doesn’t know if he thinks that’s a good thing or not. Which, apparently, is why the judgment is taking so long. Raphael’s also in custody, on Michael’s orders, and neither Gabriel nor Lucifer really care. They’re on the panel for the sake of appearances, something about making it clear that this is the judgment of Heaven, not one archangel against another. 

Lucifer wants to kill Cas for what he did to Sam. Gabriel wants to rehabilitate him somehow because he’s fond of him. Dean doesn’t know which side Michael will fall on. 

He doesn’t know what side he wants Michael to fall on. He still wants Cas to suffer for what he did to Sam, but he wants that to be personal. That little piece of him that he tries to ignore, that piece that Alistair cultivated and taught all his skills to, it wants to cut and slice and see Cas’ Grace shining through the gashes and then take it away so Dean can make him bleed. 

The rational part of Dean’s mind hates that desire, wants to remember how faithful Cas was... before… and everything he did for them... also before. He wants to be forgiving and give Cas half a chance. 

Human, not demon.

The Righteous Man, not the man who stood up off the rack and picked up the knife. 

But right now, that knife would feel so good in his hands. 

“Winchester,” Sam points out, reading over Adam’s essay. “And it's probably best to keep all the details a little vague, since we’re making them up."

"You said to use details from my life.”

"Yeah, but not ones that would raise questions.”

“So… my entire life, since I've been dead for two years.”

“That’s why you’ve got me.” Sam twirls a pen between his fingers. “Lawyers and Hunters have one thing in common.”

“A disrespect for the law?" Adam offers, cracking a smile. He’s still awkward and uncomfortable around Dean, but apparently he and Sam had bonding time in Hell. 

“I was going for selective truths and misdirection, but that works.” Adam curls into Sam’s side, pulling the laptop back into his lap and typing furiously. 

Adam’s still too skinny, but between Ellen and Dean’s efforts, they’re working on that. He’s less skittish now and a whole lot less likely to listen to dicks like Zachariah, not that any of the Host would dare upset Adam these days. 

Dean, yes. Sam, absolutely. But Adam? His speed dial very literally goes Sam, Michael, Dean, and then the hotline for ‘I’m in trouble, send the entire Heavenly Host to be smitey now’. No exaggeration. Not that he needs to call them- Michael’s ears are always on for Adam and Dean almost pities the first person who tries to harass him on campus, you know, once Sam approves his liar liar pants on fire application and Adam picks somewhere. 

Anyways, that first person is in for a big surprise because harassing Adam is apparently worse than the Seven Deadly Sins these days. Plus, Dean’s not letting Adam go anywhere without an anti-possession tattoo, a gun, a knife in his boot, and an enchanted silver charm bracelet. And practice using all of them. And practice taking out attackers. 

Dad made sure Sammy knew all this stuff, but it’s up to Dean to make sure his other little brother can defend himself, archangel on his shoulder or not. Adam’s died once- well, twice, if you count the Cage, but Dean’s not sure how to classify that- but Adam’s died when Dean couldn’t protect him once before and he’s not letting it happen again. And not just because Michael would smite him for it, Michael Sword or not. 

Sometimes- a very rare sometimes, in their new normal, but sometimes all the same- he wonders why he got the dismissive archangel who is only inclined not to smite him so long as he’s useful and Sam got the archangel who’d do just about anything to please him. On the other hand, Lucifer’s idea of pleasing Sam is creepy in a way only occasionally surpassed by Gabriel’s idea of the same thing.

So maybe he ought to be grateful that Michael’s far more interested in Adam than Dean, these days. Adam certainly needs a guardian angel more, though Dean’s pretty sure Michael would object to the title as much as Adam would object to needing to be protected. Still, Michael’s going a little overboard on the ‘hey, sorry I raised you from the dead and got you dragged to Hell’ thing.

All angels are officially required to refer to Adam as ‘your Holiness Adam’ or something similar now, by order of the Archangel Michael. 

There was a memo.

Balthazar, as one of the angels who actually knows them, has been assigned their Heavenly emissary in Cas’… incarceration. Which really could have been worse- they could have gotten a Zachariah-type pretentious ass instead of the head of angelic AA. At least Balthazar tells them what’s going on up there instead of some cryptic ‘the will of Heaven is beyond mortal understanding, puny mortals’ act. 

Apparently, Gabriel and Lucifer have been passing the time by sending dozens of memos of their own, flooding everyone’s Heavenly inboxes with instructions to call Sam ‘his Holy Hotness’ or ‘Sam, the Sam, the one and only Sam’, immediately followed by orders from Michael countermanding it. Dean’s grateful for that. The fact that Gabriel and Lucifer saved Sam’s life and have pretty much promised to stalk him is weird enough without every single stiffly formal angel they meet addressing his brother as Sexypants Winchester. 

Even in their weird lives, there’s a point at which it becomes too weird.

Angels showing up to talk to Dean and Sexypants? That’s too weird.

Dean wanders off to the kitchen. Sam and Adam don’t need his help- he’s no college kid and Sam’s always been better at the whole writing thing anyways. He was decent at math- one answer, either it’s right or wrong, none of this grey nonsense- but that doesn’t mean much while they’re getting Adam into his dream school without any angel mojo. 

Least they can do to help the kid. Not like Adam can go back to his old life, pretend the whole angel shit never happened. He’s been missing, presumed dead for two years, same deal as his mom. There is no way to explain it, no way to bring Adam Milligan back without major memory wipes.  

He’s a good kid.

Deserves better than their cursed blood.

Dean runs through making lunch on autopilot, something strangely soothing. He makes a dozen grilled cheese sandwiches with pickles, the way he likes them, and and two without pickles because Sam’s whiny. Tomato soup- out of a can because he’s not Ellen, most of the food he’s eaten comes with a smile and a ‘can I get you anything else?’- goes at the side, with more simmering on the stove. 

He’s learned. If he makes just enough for the three of them, that’s the best way to ensure a barrage of unwanted angelic visitors who insist on eating Dean’s cooking despite their ability to mojo up food of their own. Angels are dicks like that. 

He would add an ‘except for Cas’ clause there, except, well. Except for Cas. 

He doesn’t forgive and he doesn’t forget. Not when someone hurts Sammy like that. 

Dean flips his grilled cheese sandwiches over, grabbing a beer out of the fridge while the other sides cook, and turns on the music. For right now, while they get Adam on his feet, they’re not hungry. Right now, they can play at normal. 

Right now, he doesn’t have to think about Cas. 

 


	3. Move-In Day

 

_Sam_

All those years ago, Sam moved into a dorm room with a single duffel bag to his name, all alone in the world. It was about the same size as the crappy motel rooms he grew up in, but this time, his half of the room was his. Not his and Dean’s, with no secrets and Dad either drunk or missing, but his alone. 

He went to Stanford believing in all the bad things in the world, in all the demons and the monsters and the things that go bump in the night, believing in a world where they fought alone and lost as many as they saved. He was deeply lonely, his entire life spent by Dean’s side, and yet freer than he’d ever been. 

It takes the three of them, under Jo’s supervision, to carry Adam’s stuff into his room and get it all set up to Adam and Jo’s satisfaction. He’s got clothes and books and textbooks and desk supplies, a pistol and a shotgun and an angel blade tucked away in a warded box. Dean outdid himself modifying band posters and some nerdy posters and a few family photos to sneak a full set of demon and general monster warding in without making Adam, to paraphrase Jo, ‘the freak with the knife collection’. 

“You sure about pre-med?”

“My mom was a nurse,” Adam repeats. They’ve had this argument before. “I’ve always wanted to be a doctor and that’s not changing because I’ve died and come back into an apocalypse.”

“Not something easy like History of Religion? You’d have some pretty revolutionary views on the origins of mythology.” Sam tips back in the only thing he misses about dorm rooms- those chairs that don’t fall over when he leans back. 

“Twenty bucks says you could get Gabriel to do your homework,” Jo offers.

“I want my homework, not the porno version of it.” Adam opens a bag of chips, grabbing a big handful before anyone else can. He may have been an only child his whole life, but he’s a quick study at defending his food now. 

“I hear the going rate on sugar addict archangels is two lollipops and a Snickers bar,” Sam adds. 

The rustle of wings is barely a warning, these days, since it could herald damn near anyone dropping by for a visit. Sam’s not even mildly surprised when five foot eight of archangel thumps into his lap, all feigned angelic indifference as he makes himself comfortable and somehow doesn’t tip the chair the rest of the way over. Gabriel wiggles a little more than strictly necessary and Sam bites back a groan because damn it, they agreed to keep the touching to the dream world and he should have known they wouldn’t even play by their own rules.

“ _Three_ lollipops and a Snickers bar.” Gabriel considers for a moment. “And a quart of ice cream. The good stuff, none of that boring vanilla nonsense.”

“Three lollipops, but no ice cream, and you only get the third one if my homework is rated PG,” Adam negotiates, completely ignoring the fact that Gabriel’s fine and good on mythology and religion, but Sam has serious doubts about his grasp of anatomy beyond porn and his bedside manner is right out.

“Don’t forget the Snickers, pipsqueak Winchester.”

“Does that mean I have your word?”

Sam can feel the eye roll. “I swear on my word as Gabriel, Archangel of the Lord, and as Loki, God of Mischief, that I am a whore for candy and will do your homework for an appropriate sacrifice of sugary goodness.”

“Without making it a porno and on time. I got a crash course on angel negotiation in the Cage, Gabriel, you’ll have to try better than that.”

“You dare impugn my honor?” Gabriel plucks a Tootsie Pop- chocolate, because he’s not a savage, they’ve had this discussion before- out of midair and waves it around. “Homework on time, with only enough porn to make it interesting.”

“No porn.”

“That’ll be an extra candy bar for _boring_ ,” Gabriel mumbles around his sucker. “Can I get a free advance on that?”

Before Adam can say anything or guard his chips- Gabriel’s a bottomless pit and even though chips aren’t usually his favorite, he’ll go after anything nearby- a rustle of wings heralds the arrival of the others. 

“We were in the middle of a trial, Gabriel,” Michael scolds. He’s still wearing Dad’s face from back when he was young, but Sam tries not to think about that. He’s also dragging Lucifer along, holding something behind his shoulder tight enough that Lucifer winces. 

“We’re _always_ in the middle of a trial. It’s _boring_ , Mikey.” Gabriel crosses his arms, sitting up straighter to throw himself down in a melodramatic moment that would be a lot more appreciated if he didn’t have a _bony ass_. “C’mon, Lucy agrees with me!”

“I do not belong in Heaven, Michael,” Lucifer says, eyeing his brother warily. “Our brothers do not see me as one of them any longer. They would rather free Raphael and Castiel than tolerate my presence in the Halls of the Holy.”

“I,” Michael growls, so reminiscent of Dean for a moment that Sam has to pinch himself, “am _not_ doing this alone.”

“Mikey!” Gabriel whines as Michael grabs his wing, too, dragging him off Sam’s lap with a thunk of chair legs on the tile floors. 

“No.” Michael leans in close, dragging his brothers to him, but his whisper is still loud enough for all of them to hear because angels don’t really get volume control. “The two of you abandoned me to rule Heaven with _Raphael_ for _millennia_. You will come home, you will sit in your Father-given thrones, and _you will help me rule_.”

“But I don’t want to,” Gabriel complains, crunching down on his sucker petulantly. 

“You’re the one who locked me up,” Lucifer defends himself, crossing his arms as much as he can without pulling against Michael’s grip. 

The angels disappear before Michael replies, though the window rattles in its frame with the force of his silent rebuke. Adam, stretched out across his lofted bed, glances around and munches on his chips while Jo busies herself packing away more junk food than he could possibly need and a mini-fridge full of Ellen’s home cooking, a few bottles of holy water, and tiny things of ice cream in the freezer individually labeled _NOT FOR GABRIEL_.

Just in case.

Dean’s… quiet. Has been ever since Cas broke the wall in Sam’s head, regardless of his startling acceptance of angels dropping in all the time. Regardless of the fact that Sam doesn’t really remember that much and neither does Adam- their human minds weren’t supposed to hold that many years of memories, so they fade.

The door creaks open, admitting a cheery couple toting their son’s stuff. 

“Hello!” the father greets them, sticking out his hand to the closest person, who so happens to be Jo. She shakes it gingerly, slipping her knife into the back of her jeans. 

“Jo Harvelle,” she introduces herself. “Sort of like Adam’s cool big sister.”

“I’m Abraham Phillips, and this is my wife Catherine. We’re Josiah’s parents,” he explains, as if they hadn’t guessed that.

“Sam Winchester,” he introduces himself when it becomes clear Dean isn’t going to do anything. “Dean’s my older brother and Adam’s the youngest.”

“May the angels watch over you,” Catherine says, pulling Josiah’s clothes out of the duffel bag and putting them on hangers. 

“They do,” Adam promises. “Oh, they do.”

Sam stifles an immature giggle at that. Of course Adam, the boy with Heaven at his beck and call, would get a deeply religious roommate. It wouldn’t be nearly as funny if they hadn’t had archangelic family drama in here a moment earlier- Sam would kill to be a fly on the wall the first time one of Adam’s visiting angels meets his roommate. 

“You call us if you need us,” Dean tells Adam, holding him by the shoulders. “Middle of the night, Tuesday evenings when I’d stab Sam for waking me up, any time at all.”

“Stab?” Josiah asks.

“Hyperbole,” Sam and Jo answer in tandem.

 


	4. As It Is In Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, tell me if this doesn't make sense. Gabriel gets... sidetracked. By everything.

 

_Gabriel_

Heaven _sucks_.

Like, seriously. He’d forgotten in the… untold millennia… how much Heaven blows. Untold millennia sounds good and archangel-ish, right? Better than ‘whoops, I forget how long I’ve been having an awesome time with the pagans’. 

Man, Kali was hot, though. Totally worth the effort to keep her interest. Let it never be said that Loki doesn’t like a little challenge and Gabriel? Well, Gabriel’s got more juice than Loki could ever dream of, so even Kali would have difficulty binding him. 

You know, when he’s not in hiding and actually using his Dad-given mojo. 

Gabriel lounges back in his throne, kicking his feet up over the arm and getting all tangled in his robes for the trouble. Jeans are so much more convenient but _no_ , they have to be good little archangels and that means no denim in Heaven. Like, seriously, Mikey. What kind of Heaven is it with no jeans?

Cassie stands in the Hall of the Holy, Daddy’s throne room, in pristine silver chains inscribed with enough Enochian to keep Lucy subdued. Mikey is very, very still every time Cassie moves and the chains rattle. Lucy is a statue, his inner set of wings curled around his shoulders protectively and one hand stilled against his throat.

The silver collar around Cassie’s throat is still stained red with Lucy’s blood. 

That was the last time Gabriel sat in this throne. His brothers fought, coming to a standstill, and Lucy was laid low by the combined might of the Host. They chained him and dragged him to the original Hall of Judgment, where the stones laid at Creation cracked and froze under Lucy’s anger as he was chained. 

Gabriel sat at Michael’s right hand, his throne moved into the spot that was once Lucifer’s, while Raphael sat at his left and their brother was dragged before them, chained and powerless. He watched the rage dim into betrayal in Lucifer’s eyes, watched his brethren slit his throat again and again when he continued to argue with Michael. 

Watched them string him up in the heart of Hell, the cracked and flawed antithesis of Heaven shaped by his wrath and his pain. Watched Lucifer argue through the blood he choked up as they drew his Grace out of him, wrapped it all up in blood magic that turned Lucifer’s own Grace against him. Watched in silence while angels sang hymns to Daddy and burned themselves out drawing the wards to keep everyone else away from Lucifer’s prone form. 

Watched Michael speak a spell they promised never to use on each other, back in the first instants of Creation, and break Lucifer’s conscious mind away from his Grace and trap them both inside a useless body. 

Watched the Seals be inscribed.

The moment Michael ushered them all out, inscribing the First Seal- Dean Winchester’s Seal, the Seal of the Righteous Man- on to the door deep in Hell was the moment Gabriel walked away from Heaven with no intention to ever return.

“Do you repent, Castiel?” Michael intones, following the rites of trial they set down long ago, rites Gabriel helped create for the trial of Gadreel that he never presided over.

“All I did, I did for them,” Cassie repeats, just like he has the last four times Mikey asked. “For the love of our Father and for the love of his Creation. For the only people willing to defend it. And I accept my punishment.”

Michael turns to Lucifer, once again sitting in his throne of white marble at Michael’s right hand. The Morningstar is bright and brilliant, but there is a sadness to him, a weight to his Grace that Gabriel doesn’t understand. He is white and silver in his true form, pale hair and pale eyes and pale wings wrapped in robes more pearlescent than the Gates themselves. 

Or so he’d say, were he the poetic type, which he’s totally not. 

“I would have your opinion, Lucifer.”

“He hurt Sam. My Boy King. You may tolerate that kind of insolence when it comes to the Michael Sword, but I do not.”

Michael nods because that is very literally a word-for-word repetition of the last time he asked Lucifer that. No change. Lucy’s always been stubborn and decisive, so no shockers there. 

“Gabriel?”

“I like Cassie.”

“That’s all? No speech this time?”

“I’m _bored_ , Mikey, so yeah. No speech.”

Michael stares across the Hall, at Castiel wearing Lucy’s chains, and they wait. Gabriel turns his attention to his eldest brother, examining him. They really are Daddy’s pieces of art, not like Daddy’s little mistakes with all the nasty teeth and worse tempers. 

Michael is slightly shorter than Lucifer, as fine-boned as the rest of them, with a greater wingspan. He is gold and red and yellow, warm and yet fierce, the burning passion to Lucifer’s chilly perfection. He wears the crown of the Prince of Heaven as if he’s forgotten about it, a birthright he’s never had to fight for, never chanced to lose. 

Compared to the two of them, he and Raphael are downright boring. Sure, they’re radiant- they’re archangels, radiant is kind of their thing- but no fledglings should have to compare themselves to the glory of the Prince of Heaven and the Morningstar. Michael and Lucifer were the opposites that drive the world- fire and ice, choice and obedience, yadda yadda yadda. 

Raphael is… energy, Gabriel supposes. He mostly heals, these days, before he decided to take over Heaven in Michael’s absence, but he’s the crackling power of lightning and fire and disaster, unguided yet destructive, and at the same time the constructive forces of healing in all its forms- physical, mental, and spiritual. His brother is blue and black, his wings edged in startling white, harsh and yet so boringly predictable. 

Gabriel? Well, he’s life. Not the healing bit that Raphael does, but the things that make life worth it. He’s roller coasters and alcohol and dance parties, tricks and treats, and official captain of the Cupid Brigade. He’s Mr. Sex. Totally Mr. Sex. He’s bronze and red and gold, the colors of life, and it’s no mistake that Valentine’s Day is all about the reds. 

On second thought, he does like Unattached Drifter Christmas better. 

He’ll put in for a name change.

“Due to the testimony about the actions of Anael and Uriel-“

“That we’ve heard five times,” Gabriel stage-whispers to Lucifer.

“Due to this testimony,” Michael says, a little louder this time, “I bind the Grace of the angel Castiel until such time as Heaven sees fit to restore his rank. Until such a time, you are banished to Earth.”

“Hallelujah, Daddy be praised, we’re done.”

Michael clears his throat as the guards take Cassie away. “Bring in Raphael.”

Dammit.

Playing the whiny little brother card won’t get him out of this one and- Gabriel glances over at Lucifer- nah, Lucy’s not going to help. He’s still subtly nursing the wing Michael grabbed, one of their delicate innermost pair. If it were one of their other wings, Lucy would have twisted away, left Mikey with a handful of feathers and shame, but Mikey’s clever. Ripping feathers from their innermost pair? That’d be like getting a handful of the short and curlies and _twisting_.

Apparently, in the last millennia since he’s been in hiding, Mikey decided there was some sort of honor in playing dirty. That used to be Lucy’s trick. 

Gabriel remembers only too well the wrestling matches with his brothers, before Daddy created the rest of the Host and left them in charge of squalling fledglings. Raphael always had too much of a stick up his ass to play with them- it always surprised him that it was possible for someone to have more of a stick up their ass than Mikey, but Raphael manages. 

Somehow.

Michael was always precision, wings and limbs in just the right places to get a knee on Gabriel’s back and a warning hand between his wings. He was hard to beat because he didn’t make mistakes, but once you had the better of him you were good. Lucifer was the opposite- no finesse, all force, and he changed styles as quickly as you grasped what he did. There was no winning with Lucifer- he’d batter away until they were exhausted heaps of feathers on the ground. 

Gabriel shakes the memories back into the past, focusing on the here and now. No sense accidentally falling through time- he hasn’t done that since he was a fledgling himself, but sometimes having all his mojo at his fingertips makes him feel like a fledgling again. He won’t be able to go back to witness protection, now. There’s no way he’s going to be able to give up his archangel mojo again, leave him only with Loki’s powers. 

Not that they’d let him in the first place. Mikey knows his tricks now, and he’d never fool Lucy. Plus, Kali’s probably spilled to all the surviving pagans. If Odin and Baldur were still alive, he has no doubt his former pantheon would be hunting him down. For that matter, he should probably be on the watch for Thor. 

Not that Thor poses much of a problem to him. They were almost equals when he was only accessing Loki’s powers, but with Loki’s powers plus Gabriel’s Grace plus two overprotective big brothers, Thor better watch out. 

Two overprotective big brothers, lounging in their thrones like the world belongs to them, but Gabriel can feel the brittleness of their Grace as they stare down their other brother. 

The other angels withdraw. 

This judgment is for them and them alone. 

“Millennia ago, we sat in the Hall of Judgment and Lucifer knelt before us. You, of all angels, know how difficult that was for me, Raphael.” Michael’s voice is harsh, cold and clipped and sad. “You were the one who saw me close the doors to the Hall of Judgment, unable to set foot in there again. You were the one who had to speak my judgments on our lesser brethren for centuries when I could not bear to speak sentence. And here I sit, in judgment over one of my first brothers, yet again.”

Michael stretches his wings, tucking them around Lucifer and Gabriel’s shoulders in a sentimental move that Gabriel wasn’t really expecting. Raphael snarls. 

“You weren’t here.”

“The _entire point_ of Armageddon was to settle things with Lucifer, and in our absence you decided to destroy Father’s world anyways.”

“He wanted to kill our Vessels before that,” Lucifer offers. 

“You wanted to kill our Vessels, our True Vessels, even before we were locked away,” Michael continues, getting himself worked up into a self-righteous rant. “Raphael, I expected that of all my brothers, you would be the one to care for Father’s Creation in my absence. I would have expected this betrayal of Lucifer or Gabriel, but of you?”

“Hey!”

Michael ignores him and Lucifer doesn’t bother to protest.

“You ruled by my side for millennia, Raphael.”

“And I ruled in your absence, Michael,” Raphael argues. “I ruled, and continued your work. Castiel was above his station and he defied the order of Heaven.”

Gabriel slumps back in his throne. Raphael should know better than anyone that arguing with Michael is the absolute _worst_ way to get out of an argument. That was what started the whole thing with Michael and Lucifer, really. Before humanity, back when the angels were the Supreme Overlords of the Dinosaur People, that was how it began. They had an argument and neither one could bear to be reasonable and stop arguing for ten minutes. They didn’t stop the meteor because they were too busy bitching at each other.

Yeah, Daddy wasn’t happy about that one.

This is going to take _forever_.

 

 


	5. How Afraid Should Rhode Island Be?

 

_Sam_

There’s one general rule that guides Sam’s life.

When life gets good, be afraid. Be very fucking afraid.

They never get to be happy, not for long, and this? No Apocalypse, a home, Adam settled in at Brown? This is happy. Adam’s happy- his dream school, all expenses paid. Sam’s pretty sure they didn’t write good enough fake transcripts for him, but Adam said ‘go Ivy or go home’ one day when Michael was in earshot and every application to a non-Ivy League school just… vanished. The full ride was him, too- the first scholarship from the Nevaeh Organization for a student with exceptional studies in the History of Religion who isn’t intending to major in it.

Real subtle, guys. 

Dean’s even happy, for the most part. They have a home, as weird and backwards as the angels’ explanation of it is. The secret organization their deadbeat dad’s deadbeat dad was a part of before he skipped town with their secret hideout full of… research and weapons. So, what Bobby’s house would look like with a lot more money and a lot less redneck. And a lot more rooms.

Dean misses Cas, though, much as he tries to hide it. Sam catches him staring at empty spaces, speaking to empty rooms when the wind blows just right through the complex, raging against a punching bag in the gym. He’s furious and he sharpens all the knives far more often than they require, but he also makes chocolate chip pancakes even though he and Sam both like blueberry better and makes extra portions of sausage and bacon. 

He looks sad when he wraps the extras up in tinfoil, so Sam’s taken to sneaking them under the table and summoning Gabriel and his bottomless pit of a stomach when Dean’s not looking.

Which was rather awkward that one time Dean stepped back in and found an archangel crouched under the table at Sam’s feet.

They haven’t talked about that one.

Sam doesn’t really want to talk about it.

Some things are beyond human explanation. Gabriel’s choice of outfits is one of them. Sam’s pretty sure it’s part of a campaign to drive him insane by increments, especially since Lucifer acts like he doesn’t notice anything different.

“You know, thinking about an archangel feels almost as good as praying to us,” Gabriel purrs, his weight settling across Sam’s back. “Good thoughts, I mean.”

“You angels are surprisingly light when you choose to be.” Sam opens his book again, letting Gabriel get comfortable on his back. Archangel or no archangel, he has research to do- downtime is no excuse not to get ready for the next disaster and the Men of Letters knew so much. Not all practical, but some of it is.

“I may be a massive being of celestial intent squished into a itsy-bitsy, mostly human body, but angels were still built to fly.”

“Are you all masters of non-answers?”

“Only the cool ones.” 

Sam doesn’t respond, going back to his book. _Blood and Blood Drinkers: The Sociology of Vampires and Vampire Nests_ is actually surprisingly interesting, if absolutely shit at practical knowledge. Gabriel hums as he reads along over Sam’s shoulder, jumping in pitch when he has a correction but keeping it to himself. Sam’s started a shelf of books they’re allowed to annotate- Gabriel’s skimmed most of them while Sam sleeps by now, but Lucifer’s still correcting the Bible line by line. It’s hilarious- his comments start in English, devolving into Latin and then angry Enochian that shivers with power when he touches it. 

“Aw, don’t be boring, Sammy.”

“This is my quiet time. When I’m quiet. You know what I do with archangels who can’t be quiet?”

“Cassie never should have taught you how to banish us,” Gabriel grumbles.

“Anna, actually.”

“Angels who were still fledglings when I ran away shouldn’t be teaching you how to make my life difficult,” Gabriel corrects as if he’d never spoken the first time, his almost-hot breath tickling the back of Sam’s neck. 

Sam ignores him. It’s quiet time and if he got Lucifer to understand that, he’s damn well going to get Gabriel to learn it. On the flip side, that means ignoring the archangel with the roaming hands. 

Sam’s not sure who takes being ignored better- Gabriel or Lucifer. 

Should be more like who gets pushier when they’re ignored. Lucifer goes for annoying him until he pays attention, but Gabriel goes straight for the grabby hands.

Gabriel’s touch crackles along his skin, the warm brush of his Grace amplified as the archangel within stretches against the confines of his vessel. His hands, still firmly in PG territory- he never thought he’d be giving the good touch/bad touch talk to two archangels, but they want and they like to touch- would feel almost human but for the static shock that follows him. Gabriel’s good at keeping his skin pliable, pretending to be mortal, at least in public.

In private? Well, there’s something about angels leaving traces of themselves inside their vessels that Sam mostly tuned out because neither archangel could get through a sentence without giggling and whispering things to each other in Enochian that sounded a whole lot like dick jokes, but apparently angel Grace isn’t liable to kill him anytime soon. Soonish. At the present moment, to the best of their estimation, it won’t kill him. And if it did, they’d only bring him back.

So Sam’s adjusting to the feeling of an archangel stretching outside of their vessel, to frost climbing his limbs in the sunshine and the tickle of feathers against the nape of his neck while they watch Sam’s favorite movies- they let Gabriel choose once and it was incredibly weird, so it’s always Sam’s choice now. 

Lucifer had a deep moral objection to _Aladdin_ and Ursula’s classification as a villain had them arguing well into Sam’s dreams.

Sam’s saving _Cinderella_ for a day when he needs a running commentary on socio-political stratification and the relative effects of a fairy godmother versus a good seamstress from two beings who sit at the top of the most powerful caste system ever.

“Sigarr would have liked _Frozen_.”

Sam closes _Blood and Blood Drinkers_ , tucking half a gas station receipt into the book because that’s Serious Gabriel and he hasn’t seen him since, well, trapping him in a circle of holy fire and making him admit to his identity. Hopefully, this is a Very Different Scenario. Impending Apocalypse? Over with. Michael and Lucifer? Playing nice. Instead of unhappy archangel in a tiny circle of fire, he’s got cuddly archangel sprawled on his back while he reads. 

At least it’s one cuddly archangel and not two. On their own, they may be fairly light, but together they are not.

Speaking from experience. 

“Sigarr?” he asks after what might have been a little too long, forcing his tone to stay casual.

“Sigarr. Was a tall brunette in his day, not quite so tall now with wild moose roaming around, sacrificed to the God of Mischief… nah, I don’t even know how long ago.”

“Your… vessel.”

“For this end of forever, yes. Went through a few before I learned how not to burn through them- that’s not just Mikey and Lucy’s problem, you know. Archangels just aren’t made to take the flesh.” Gabriel sticks his hands out in front of Sam’s face, wiggling his fingers to show _look, no nasty burns_ before looping his arms around Sam’s neck. 

“Do you have a True Vessel, then?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Doesn’t really matter for me and Raphael. It takes Grace to maintain a vessel, make sure Sigarr doesn’t vaporize, but I don’t need my full strength. That’s what’s special about your bloodline, you know. Enough magic in your blood that we can’t burn you out, lets Mikey and Lucy wreck each other with their full power.”

“Lovely.”

Gabriel hums with contentment, snuggling against Sam’s back, and now that he thinks about it, this is the first time since they fixed his head that he’s spent much time with only one of them. Usually, they’re either popping in and out briefly or both of them are hovering. 

“Lucy will come if you call, but he’s busy showering Adam with gifts to make Mikey feel better.” Gabriel frowns. “I never thought I’d say that.”

“How afraid should Rhode Island be?”

“They shouldn’t be.” Gabriel laughs. “Mikey and Lucy took him to Boston.”

Sam groans. Adam’s good at dealing with Michael- hello, time in the Cage- but he hasn’t managed to learn to play the angels off each other yet to save himself a headache. Or leftovers. He and Dean are still microwaving breakfast after The Great Pancake Cookoff of Three Weeks Ago and that’s even with two trips to the grocery store to restock Gabriel’s favorite strawberry syrup.

Michael and Lucifer used up all the ingredients in the pantry before they started pulling their own out of midair. Most of them are good, but even Gabriel won’t touch the ones where they started getting inventive with ostrich eggs and what Lucifer claimed was a dinosaur egg yanked straight out of the Triassic. 

He pities Boston. Two archangels trying to show off to one formerly dead kid, one of whom is really possessive of said formerly dead kid and the other who just likes to press his brother’s buttons? Yeah. Nothing can possibly go wrong there.

“What’s going to happen with Cas?” He’s been avoiding this one- Lucifer and Gabriel always look so unhappy when Heaven’s been brought up lately. 

“He’s powerless, at least for now. Michael dropped him on the other side of the continent with his memory intact and just enough mojo left to survive without any sort of identification or work history.” 

“I suppose we’ll run into him at some point. Cas will follow the weird if he wants to see us and Dean will start asking questions if I refuse every hunt in California.”

“So we aren’t telling Dean.”

“Have you seen him? Dean’s a wreck over Cas’ betrayal. No, we’re not telling Dean.”

“Your call, sasquatch.”

 

 


	6. Et Tu, Brute?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update day! Whoo! That's what happens when I finish an exam- I just can't stop writing. Little bit of a short chapter, but hey, I thought everyone needed a little plot and a little more Cas.

 

_Castiel_

Three years.

Three years is nothing to an angel. He’s spent years in prayer before, entire decades spent contemplating his Father’s Creation while the world spun on and little humans lived and died. Three years is a mere blink the their Father’s eye, a pittance in the grand plans, even when they included most of an aborted apocalypse and the release of Lucifer from his prison. 

Castiel was a fledgling for the trial, herded in to the Hall of Judgment by Anael alongside his age-mates to watch Lucifer brought to his knees. He remembers flocking to the Garden with his siblings, sprinting across the grasses trying to fly on every leap, his wings unable to support him yet. The older angels were whispering to each other, sticking to the fringes of the Garden, but Castiel remembers their little group running to the bend in the stream, to Gabriel’s favorite place in Heaven, to beg the archangel to play with them. 

He remembers Gabriel’s tears, the pall over the entire Garden while the archangel wept, and the gentle press of his wings as he pushed them away to be alone with his grief.

And yet, with all he has lived, the last three years have been the most world-shatteringly important. Quite literally, in fact. If he chooses to go back further, the last thirty or so have been so active, with the Cherubim ensuring the union of John Winchester and Mary Campbell, ensuring the birth of Dean and Sam and their survival to adulthood. They will never appreciate how many times just the right weapon appeared in John Winchester’s possession or truly dangerous monsters moved on when he arrived. 

The ghouls seeking revenge on John Winchester, the ones that killed their half-brother, they were not the first ones to seek their revenge against his children. Dean and Sam would not have survived to their majority were it not for the angels posted invisibly outside their motel rooms.

Castiel was overjoyed to receive his orders from the Archangel Michael himself, to be ordered to kneel before the Archangel in his great throne. It was to be the greatest achievement of his existence, to lead the charge into Hell. To be the angel trusted to grip Dean Winchester tight and raise him from perdition— it would be an honor beyond any other.

And that was before it was general knowledge in Heaven that Dean Winchester was not just the Righteous Man, he was the Michael Sword.

Three years.

Three years since he was one of Heaven’s finest soldiers.

Three short years and in that time, he rebelled against his brothers for the sake of a few humans, he threw holy fire at the Archangel Michael, he helped derail Father’s big plan, and he consorted with a demon to overthrow another archangel.

“How art thou fallen from Heaven, Castiel.”

Castiel turns, reaching for an angel blade they didn’t let him manifest before barring his powers and settling for his best impression of an irritated look a la Sam Winchester. Crowley is unfazed.

“That is what you angels like to do, isn’t it? Paraphrase your Bible at people? A little pretentious, if you ask me, but your people never do.”

“Crowley.”

“Heard you were in time-out. Had to come take a look.” Crowley gives him a once-over, then quirks an eyebrow. “So, how ‘bout I make you a deal?”

“No.” He may be nearly powerless, but he is still an angel, and angels do not make deals with demons. The Archangels would execute him for it this time.

“You might want to listen for another moment, Brutus. See, I’m still ready to get my souls, take my place on the throne of Hell, but I’m a little lacking in the partner to work with. Betraying you for Raphael, which sounded like a really good idea before, isn’t so hot when he has all his brothers back. Means I’m back to you.”

“Angels don’t make deals with demons.”

“Hear me out. It looks like you’re powerless from here, flyboy, and I’m thinking you could use a little power. Wouldn’t want Dean and Moose to get hurt, would we?” Crowley leans close. “Do we have a deal?”

Sam and Dean. 

He broke the wall in Sam’s head. Sam will be absolutely incapacitated by his memories of Hell and if Castiel knows anything at all about Dean, he will not abandon his brother. Dean will stand by Sam, no matter the cost. 

And with Michael and Lucifer free, with Raphael still angry with them, they will need all the protection Castiel used to provide to them. 

He has to protect the Winchesters. After all the ways he’s betrayed Heaven, he can still do that much. 

“You have a deal.”

He has to protect Sam and Dean.

Maybe then they’ll forgive him.

 

***

 

When the time comes, Castiel stands before the sigil to take the lion’s share of the souls with the understanding that he’ll help Crowley take the throne of Hell and hold it. Souls flood into him, each one giving him a glimpse into their life and death. Some are new, with last glimpses of the Winchesters and even a few of his own true face. Some are old, dispatched in the holy crusades of the past, and some even give him glimpses of Michael and Lucifer fighting side by side. 

The _power_.

The clamor inside his head, all these voices, begging to be set free. 

He could face down an archangel like this.

 

 

 

 

 

_We will, eheheheheh, oh we will— shut up! The angel will hear us!_


	7. Craving a... Hunt

 

_Sam_

They need a hunt.

His excuse is that Dean needs to keep busy, which is not entirely a lie. Without things to track and kill with slightly more force than strictly necessary, Dean’s moping is absolutely out of control. He’s sharpened all the swords, packed more salt rounds than they could use in a few months- barring another apocalypse, but Lucifer seems perfectly happy editing an old physics textbook of Sam’s- and started getting increasingly inventive in the kitchen. As in, really inventive. Inventive enough that Ellen insists on cooking any time she visits because Dean gets… well. 

Sam’s considering an intervention.

Gabriel’s already made a balloon arch in neon green and sparkly silver. Sam’s still working on a more satisfactory explanation for that one because ‘unhelpful archangels’ only goes so far.

So Dean needs a hunt, and if they’re being perfectly honest, Sam needs a distraction.

Lucifer is leaning against one arm of the couch, murmuring to himself in a dead language while he pores through Sam’s textbook. Gabriel replaced all his red pens with hot pinks ones two days ago, but Lucifer doesn’t seem to mind. He stays buried in the book, but frost blossoms across Sam’s cheek at the brush of feathers and frozen Grace as Lucifer tests his mood. 

The book snaps shut, a single white feather appearing in the pages to mark his place, and Gabriel startles almost enough to fall off Lucifer’s lap. He’s draped across his brother’s lap, watching cartoons upside-down and working his way through a bag of fun sized candy bars. 

“If you drop me, Lucy, I will end you,” Gabriel threatens, turning up the volume. 

Lucifer’s Grace quests out again, sharp eyes watching Sam for any sign of distress as threads of frost spread out from where Lucifer’s bare foot is pressed against his thigh. It’s a weird feeling, Lucifer’s cold creeping over him while Gabriel is still radiating warmth down by his feet, but now a familiar one. They always want to touch, to be pressed up against him with the skin of their human vessels and their Grace and occasionally their true forms, and when he finally kicks them off his lap they just end up in a tangle of wings and limbs.

“I’m fine,” he tells the Devil, sliding his laptop out from under the couch. 

Lucifer’s cold slowly retreats, but he wiggles his toes against Sam’s thigh, then banishes the textbook and his laptop across the room. 

_Lucifer, no_ , he says silently. Lucifer shivers with Sam’s prayer and wasn’t that a revelation- Gabriel told him that prayers feel good, but Lucifer, who receives so few, is the real proof of it. The Devil sticks his tongue out- Sam isn’t sure if it’s actually forked or if he does that for the effect, but he’s betting on the latter- and the message is clear. Lucifer yes.

He moves slowly, one hand slipping along the back of the couch to rest behind Gabriel’s calves and the other across his brother’s ribs. Gabriel doesn’t even bother moving, wrapped up in his cartoons, and Lucifer gives Sam a wicked smile before his fingers find the spot just at the edge of Gabriel’s ribs where he’s ticklish.

Gabriel yelps and flails, and that’s when Lucifer tips him off the couch. 

“You’re a big bag of dicks, Lucy.” Gabriel stays sprawled on the floor. His wings snapped out in surprise- and wasn’t that a weird thing the first time he saw Gabriel spook Lucifer and get whacked with a wing for his trouble. “Have I told you that? Oh- wait! I did. Right before you stabbed me.”

“You made me watch your Grace burn out, Gabriel.”

“Because you stabbed me.”

“You made me think I killed my own brother.”

“Because you stabbed me,” he repeats, a little slower, arching his back off the floor to tucks his wings away. “I am _so_ not taking the blame for that one.” Gabriel tackles Lucifer, and they both vanish. Sam groans. 

Not another trans-dimensional wrestling match.

The last one fried the wiring in exactly two thirds of the garage and destroyed one of the cars abandoned there by the Men of Letters. Dean would have been pissed, but he was too relieved that it was the car next to the Impala and not his baby. 

While they wrestle, he finds a decent-looking hunt, a haunting that might be a Woman in White, changes into something a little more appropriate for autumn, and finally tips his face to the sky and prays.

_Lucifer, Gabriel. I know you’re both tuning in to me or whatever you do so that you don’t hurt me, but the last time you did this it lasted nearly three days before Gabriel wanted pancakes and I don’t have three days of patience. There’s a hunt, and I’m going to drag Dean out on it. Keep fighting if you have to, but try and keep it in dimensions where you won’t destroy things or get yourself spotted._

There’s no response, but there’s no Lucifer bursting out of thin air with Gabriel screeching battle cries and attacking him with a rubber chicken, either. Small victories.

Gabriel’s lethal with a rubber chicken. 

Hell, he’s lethal with just about anything, but apparently regular weapons are boring and he’s deathly allergic to boring and they wouldn’t want him to go into anaphylactic shock, would they?

Sam shakes it off. All this time with two beings who don’t really conceive of time or manage to keep a linear thought process is rubbing off. Sharing a head with Lucifer was a rather eye-opening experience, or it would have been if he was capable of opening his own eyes at the time. Angels don’t do stream of consciousness, not like he recognizes it. No, they jump between memories and the present and musings on the future and occasionally the actual future with an ease that should be worrying, which is jarring enough to Sam’s poor limited human brain before they get into actually slipping through time. 

Cas has limitations on how far back he can send them and for how long. Lucifer has no such limitations, not when sharing his True Vessel with Sam. They visited the dinosaurs because Sam made an offhand comment about Jurassic Park. 

Dean doesn’t know how long he shared a body with Lucifer before they showed up in Stull Cemetery, and it makes Sam’s life easier to keep it that way. 

Still, the whole non-linear thing seems to rub off, which makes research frustrating sometimes because he’ll be working on the bite pattern of a centaur versus a satyr and get distracted by the mythology and the next thing he knows he’s sitting in Ancient Greece with an angel whispering translations in his ear. Archangels are terrible about procrastination.

Hunt. Packing. Now. 

“Dean!”

 

***

 

They waltz in the rain.

To be honest, it isn’t the strangest thing Sam’s seen in a graveyard. It certainly isn’t the strangest thing he’s seen the two of them do- sure, they’ve been surprisingly absent since he and Dean left the bunker, but Sam figures they’re still wrestling. This hunt ended up a lot more complicated than it was supposed to be- burned records, broken headstones, and _local police_ \- so he was expecting complaining archangels at any moment. 

This is no accident, coming across them on the one day when he and Dean split up to search the local graveyards for the right headstone, but for once, he is not the center of this show. This is private, secluded by the downpour and the promise of winter in the air. The lulling sound of rain on granite washes around them, drowning out the cacophonous hum of civilization from the nearby town while the clouds above darken the skies against the artificial glow of lights. 

Private. 

Sensual. 

Utterly hedonistic. 

This is them reminding Sam that when they said they wanted him, they wanted every facet of his life and he left them behind for this. Also known as being passive aggressive featherbutts who believe in show, don’t tell. And who are fully capable of keeping the rain off him and aren’t out of the same sort of dramatic effect and if he gets sick, he’s making them play nursemaid.

Which is probably a bad idea.

So he ignores them. It’s the worst thing he can do.

Sam searches through the headstones, brushing dirt and ivy off the stones to find the names of the long-dead, searching through the decomposed remains of flowers left there to wilt and leaves crumbled to dust. The Miller Family, five generations. The King Family, four generations and then a gap of a generation before the next two. Edgar Lewis and his three unmarried daughters, taken by illness not long after their mother. 

They know from the church records that Calliope Evanston, their Woman in White, was buried in town but not in her church’s graveyard. Unfortunately for his chances of staying dry, the town records listing _exactly_ which graveyard she was buried in burned ten years back. Now that he thinks about it, he should have called for an archangel then to jump them ten years back in time instead of doing this by hand. Oh, well. Old habits.

The music swells from midair, physically rippling through the wind and the static charge in the air. The trees shiver with the quiver of the strings, with the power of every drawn out note and the allegretto dance of the notes in between. He can vaguely recognize the current piece- Jess loved the Nutcracker, played nothing but Tchaikovsky when she studied. He downloaded her iTunes to his own, found some solace in her favorites in those dark days after she died. 

The memory of Jess doesn’t even make old aches twinge. Not any more. He can barely remember her face, most days, just the memory of a memory of the pain of her loss. He thinks he has Lucifer to- thank? blame? he’s not sure- for that. His memories of everything else in his life are razor sharp, but Jess is blurred, as if watching his memories through a sheen of ice. 

Caught up in remembrance, he glances up from the headstone of Augusta Montgomery, beloved wife and mother, expecting burnished gold and alpine blue eyes on him with the keen regard of an archangel. He expects at least glances over their shoulders to make suire he’s paying attention- they’re doing this for attention, why else would they show up in a graveyard as soon as he split up from Dean- and he expects… more. More of what, he doesn’t know, but more because life has been overwhelming and crazy and fantastic since it was invaded by Gabriel and Lucifer and he expects _that_.

He doesn’t expect to be completely ignored because that isn’t what they do, either one of them. They’ve had millennia in each others’ company before Lucifer was locked up and they’ll have millennia more after Sam’s a pile of dust in a dying flame, so he usually has them sniping at each other and draping themselves over him. Now, they’re just dancing, not even looking at him and he _knows_ that they know he’s here, that’s the _point_.

There is very little magic about their dance, no impossible lifts or too-high leaps, nothing inhumanely possible except for how the environment warps around them. Lucifer leads them in a complicated series of steps to one side, turning to work a gradual circle, and Gabriel steps backwards through a headstone, a dip in the ground rising up to meet his foot. His eyes are closed, lips parted, the picture of indolence as they drift through the graveyard with precisely timed steps. They are entirely wrapped up in each other, in the clasp of hands and the interlocking of their feet and the sway of the music. 

The music fades out, replaced by the splashing of the rain, and Lucifer and Gabriel remain frozen in place. The rain paints Gabriel’s hair to his skin, dark swirls curling across the planes of his cheekbones and dripping straight into his collar, his jacket hanging heavy off his limbs. Lucifer’s tee is molded to his chest, his jeans hanging low on his hips, and he never breaks eye contact with Gabriel.

He can almost see the shimmer of wings spreading up behind them. Otherworldly energy crackles through the air, the physical manifestation of the tension building between them, and it’s only a matter of time before it snaps. Gabriel leans in, forehead pressed flat against Lucifer’s shoulder, and Lucifer’s eyes finally slide shut. 

The moment they vanish, Sam slumps against the heavy granite headstone of one Richard Jones, gasping for breath. He grinds the heel of his palm against the front of his jeans, grateful for his solitude as the rain drips from his hair and the graveyard is just that. 

Just another boneyard. 

Just another hunt.

Sam slides down to the muddy ground, staring at the stone angel draped over a nearby headstone, cold and untouchable and foreign. 

They’ve said they want everything, but Sam needs to hunt until he collapses because right now, he wants _everything_. Everything that never works out, everything that gets people killed or starts an apocalypse because he hates sleeping alone. He has two archangels who want to spend time with him and make his life easier- _why can’t that be enough?_

Because it isn’t enough. 

Not when they’re funny and sweet and caring, not when he’s been waking up every morning in their motel room wondering where his angels are, not when they look at each other like that to make a point and all he wants is to be the focus of their gaze.

He is so screwed.

 

 

 


	8. Lockdown In Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, a note about timeline:
> 
> The last Sam chapter takes place sort of concurrently with the Cas chapter, and this chapter takes place after Cas opens the rift to Purgatory but before anyone knows what he's done. Hope that makes sense- tell me if not so I can try and fix stuff.

 

_Gabriel_

This, to put it in a non-blasphemous way, is a disaster. A disaster of apocalyptic proportions, which is saying something, since they just came out of an apocalypse of apocalyptic proportions. 

He’s never listening to Mikey’s schtick again. Oh, Daddy created me first, so I _obviously_ know best, just let me make all the decisions. That’s utter shit, Mikey, and they all know it- if anyone, Gabriel should be consulted about things affecting the mortal plane since he’s actually spent most of his very long life there. The _as it is in Heaven, so must it be on Earth_ line? Real useful for recalcitrant Vessels- _NOT_ \- but not so useful for, well, anything else. At all. 

Gabriel storms through Heaven, ignoring the warning klaxons over Angel Radio, and everyone else gets out of his way. He’d kill to escape Heaven right now but Michael’s not that much of an idiot- he _learned_ from Gabriel’s last temper tantrum and put Heaven into a _complete fucking lockdown_. No angels in, no angels out, not even him or Lucy. 

_I hate you for the lockdown protocols, Daddy,_ he prays.

Daddy doesn’t answer. Doesn’t really matter- he hasn’t answered for millennia, but he hopes for the first time in too long that he will. Since Sammy took Lucy, Mikey, and Adam into the Cage with him, sometimes Gabriel can feel his Father’s hand on his shoulder or the whisper of a voice that doesn’t ring against his Grace like his brothers do. It’s probably a side effect of being close to his brothers again, especially with all the time he’s spent with Lucy. Picking up fragments of their memories, sense-memories that feel new because they aren’t his. It isn’t impossible, and in his world, that means possible. 

“Archangel,” the angels murmur as they get out of his way. If you know what human fashion looks like- and Gabriel does, hel~lo, he lived there for long enough- it’s easy to see who has frequented Earth. Without a stronger angel imposing a style on them, they end up in whatever they last wore to Earth, angels in suits next to ones in togas next to ones with frankly enormous codpieces that make Gabriel wince. Probably about half the Host wears their true forms, whether they have a vessel or not.

The Fae have nothing on angels when it comes to humans going missing, never to be seen again. Sure, Gabriel’s had Sigarr longer than any other angel, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s had Sigarr longer than most angels knew how to take vessels. Almost had to ditch him once- Daddy asked him to go announce the Immaculate Conception, said that if he didn’t he’d tip Mikey off as to Gabriel’s location. It was kind of a big deal. He had to order an entire garrison of angels to forget he was there and wasn’t _that_ a sap on his Grace. 

He likes Sigarr. Wishes that he hadn’t been weirded out by the whole archangel thing- there was no way to hide the truth when they were sharing a brain, so he offered Sigarr a one-way to Valhalla and he took it. After all these years, he hasn’t really changed much about his vessel- like everything else in the world, his vessel’s form is malleable to his will. Case in point- Mikey’s wearing some octogenarian who used to be a high-class hooker back in the day, but he prefers to look like a young John Winchester. 

Well, mostly. His eyes are a little too bright, he’s too light, all of that stuff that happens unless they try to avoid it when they take a vessel. 

Sigarr used to have brown eyes, back in the day, but now they’re closer to Gabriel’s natural gold. It isn’t something he noticed happening, they just lightened day in and day out until one day Frigga pointed it out. Quietly, of course. Frigga was the real power in Asgard, the quiet whisper that guided Odin’s actions. 

These days, he thinks Frigga probably knew, even back then. Knew he was too powerful for a pagan god, that he knew too much, that there was something not quite synchronous about him. He wonders if she knew he was an angel. Mikey wasn’t exactly quiet in the first decades after he disappeared, everyone knew that an archangel was missing. It just turned to missing, presumed dead after a century or so. 

He should check on her, find her and Thor and Sif and some of the ones he liked a little better. They weren’t at the Elysium with Odin and Baldur, so they’re probably still alive and kicking. Thor’ll probably take a swing at him, but that’s Thor’s MO anyways. To be honest, he’s more worried about Sif kicking his ass for never telling them the truth. 

There’s no hiding who he is now. Archangel Grace is like glitter- once it’s clinging to you, it doesn’t let go. Ever. Like radioactive glitter that leaves traces wherever he goes, easily trackable by anyone who actually knows what they’re looking for. 

It makes the sigils on Sammy’s ribs pretty damn useless, these days. If their Grace is like glitter, then Sammy looks like he’s been attacked by a pack of kindergarteners with glue sticks. Which makes him and Lucy the kindergarteners, which is… not too far off track, in his case.

He needs to get to Earth. Raphael took off the minute Michael decided not to kill him, taking a few of the Host most loyal to him along, and Gabriel’s got no doubt that he’ll go after the Winchesters. More importantly, he’ll go after Sam, and right now he sparkles like the Fourth of fucking July. 

Gabriel likes seeing his Grace on Sam, likes the heat of his Grace playing back and forth with the frost of Lucy’s, and right now he wishes he didn’t like that so much because Sam’s a target and Michael’s keeping him cooped up here. 

Gabriel stomps his foot, and Heaven shakes. 

“Wasn’t me,” he says out loud, not that anyone pays any attention to him. 

Heaven shakes again, and Gabriel can feel the presence of another reality leaking through, sort of like whenever he’s close to one of the gates to Hell, and… _shit_ , they just came out of an apocalypse, this _wasn’t supposed to happen!_

_Rotten, broken world. The anti-Creation, the broken shards of everything, the brightness smothered by coagulating slime dripping… dripping… dripping…_

All around him, angels reach for their wings, scratching and ripping at their feathers to get rid of the slime that isn’t there as Purgatory touches Creation for the first time since… since Daddy realized that his beloved first children, his Archangels, were about to be eaten by their toothy new friends. The others have never felt the miasma that surrounds those beasts, the sourness that taints Creation when they’re near. 

This is the least of it. A rift to Purgatory must be ripped on Earth, but it’s a rather abrupt reminder that Purgatory is… Heaven-adjacent. It’s the barrier between Heaven and Hell. If they think demons are disgusting… well. Gabriel doesn’t have the time to soothe them. 

He was never any good at the smoothing ruffled feathers bull in the first place. 

He finds resolve somewhere. Sam always seems to inspire that in him. For the Winchesters, he made his stand at the Elysium Fields, hoping to either kill his brother or break Lucy’s nerve by making Lucy kill him. For Sam, he left his awesome vacation to save them, to fix Sam’s head with Lucy’s help. For Sam, he let Michael bring him back to Heaven. 

For Sam, he’ll break the Pearly Gates if he has to, rip a hole in Heaven just to shred Michael’s lockdown. Lucy would do the same.

It’s probably a good thing that Sam will never ask them for much. Gabriel hates it, hates the relic of John Winchester’s mistreatment of his two Very Important children, but with Sam he will never have to worry about Sam asking too much. Because he would give Sam anything, no matter the cost. 

Wherever Daddy went, he’s probably laughing his head off at that cosmic joke. Lucifer and Gabriel, the most irresponsible of his first children, yoked into their responsibilities at last by the- no, he won’t say the L-word, but he’s totally not thinking it- by a human. 

_Daddy,_ he prays, one last time. _Dad, if you’re out there, if you’re listening… I know how this never turns out nearly the way people hope, but I could use a sign or some guidance of some sort. Who do the archangels go to when they’re confused, right? Anyways, Dad, I could use… well, I could use you, but if even Michael doesn’t get to sit at your feet and talk anymore, I don’t expect that._

Gabriel takes a deep breath, letting a breeze break the ancient stillness of Heaven, and tips his face skyward. He spreads his wings, letting his Grace expand, banishing away at least these small traces of Purgatory from Heaven’s bounds. 

_It doesn’t make up for anything I’ve done, for what I might do to get to Sam, but at least this way I can help. If you can hear me, Dad? We need you. Earth needs you, Heaven needs you, your precious humanity is going to need you._ Gabriel takes to the sky, searching Heaven for Michael and Lucifer. _I need you._


	9. Jello

_Dean_

When Dean wakes up, there’s a wrapped present sitting on the desk in his room. Brown paper, not like the lazy here’s your present in a paper bag paper but thick butcher paper with neat corners and sharply creased edges, a plaid ribbon tied in a bow on top, and no tag. Like a real present, not the half-assed stuff he and Sam do because they forget it’s Christmas until they’re hunting down a rogue elf who saw _Rudolph_ and fancies they’re a dentist now. 

So, no, they don’t really do Christmas. Occasionally, Dad ditched them at Bobby’s over Christmas and there’d be something wrapped in newspaper and a lot of clear tape on the table the next morning, but that was about it. 

Which brings him back to the present on his desk. 

Dean hauls himself out of bed, taking the gun from under his pillow with him and the pocketknife from his discarded jeans lying across his bed, and stalks towards it. It isn’t ticking, which is something, but he’s pretty sure they only do that in the movies. He turns it around- no, nothing written on the paper and no tag anywhere. Isn’t that helpful.

So he opens it. Carefully, peeling back the tape and slicing it when he can’t, more for the whole suspicious present thing than any desire to save the wrapping paper. Surprising absolutely nobody- meaning not Dean, since he’s alone and definitely not calling for Sam when there’s like a 99% chance this is some joke of Gabriel’s- it’s a box. And also completely unlabeled. With a frankly excessive amount of duct tape on it. 

If Gabriel’s prank gums up his knife with duct tape adhesive, he and Sam are going to have words about boundaries and keeping his angels in check. 

Inside isa plastic bag of… red goo. Thick red goo, congealing in the bottom with chunks of stuff in it and a smudge of red drying to brown on the twist tie. As he lifts it, a paper falls from where it was tucked alongside the bag. 

_You will be safe now._

Dean takes another look at the bag of goo, pokes it with the barrel of his gun, and the congealed mass shifts. One of the chunky bits presses against the edge of the bag and Dean’s no doctor, but that’s a tooth. A human tooth, not like a vampire fang or something like that. 

Back in the box it goes. 

Deep breath.

He hasn’t even had his morning coffee yet. It is too damn early for this shit.

_“SAM!”_

Sam’s shout back is a garbled mess. He’s a wreck without at least a cup of coffee, and only that when they get the extra-caffeinated stuff off the internet. Diner sludge usually takes about three cups to make him stop glaring at the world like it’s done him a personal affront. Dean waits- one, two, three, four…

“Sam says, and I quote, ‘fuck off, Dean, and go eat some fucking pancakes’.” Lucifer strolls in, inspecting Dean’s things and then setting them down in precisely the right places. He turns coffee mugs to match the rings on the table, inspects photos, and sorts through the books abandoned on the table.

“God, I’m so sick of pancakes,” Dean complains, flopping down on his bed to avoid looking at the… jello. He’ll call it jello and try not to think about it too much. 

“If Gabriel is to be believed, Father is partial to waffles.”

“The fact that you had to say ‘if Gabriel is to be believed’ ought to tell you what to think about that,” Dean grumbles into his pillow. There’s no way to rush Lucifer- he decided he was going to make coffee one morning and it took hours. _Hours_. He did a full comparison of different roasts of coffee beans, with different methods of grinding them and then different brewing methods, resulting in about twelve different pots of coffee. 

“You ought to refrigerate this,” Lucifer comments, inspecting the bag before moving on to the weapons on the walls. 

“Oh, you ought to refrigerate it,” Dean mocks. “Someone left a bag of red jello with fucking _teeth_ in my room and you think I ought to refrigerate it.”

Lucifer gives him a level look. “What happens in your room is your business, but if you stink up the entire bunker it will upset Sam.”

Dean mumbles something that might be _fucking archangels with their skewed priorities_ before he rolls over. “SAAAAM!”

Lucifer glares. “That was rude.” He vanishes in a rustle of wings, probably to return to Sam, instead of walking two doors down the hall like a normal person. Sam doesn’t seem to mind the archangels lurking in the background of his life, but it’s mildly weird. And they’ve been clingier than usual- they disappeared for a few days, and since then there’s always at least one of them within arm’s reach of Sam. Something’s up, but they’re refusing to talk about it.

Sam stumbles to the door with the worst bedhead this side of the Mississippi, looking like death warmed over. “What the hell, Dean? I sent you an archangel.”

“That.” Dean points at the bag of… who the hell is he kidding, it isn’t jello. “Somebody left a box with _that_ in it while I slept.”

Sam pokes it while Gabriel shadows him. Lucifer… sulks? Yeah, Lucifer sulks against the back wall chewing gum and blowing bubbles. “Is that a tooth?”

“Human,” Gabriel confirms, peering around Sam. “Human puree, but watch this.” Gabriel reaches out, flattening his hand against the bag, and the goo hums and resonates like an angel outside of a vessel. 

“Vessel?” Sam asks.

“That’s too much resonance for just a vessel,” Lucifer points out, popping his gum with a sharp snap. “There’s an angel’s true form mixed in there, too.”

“How do you puree an angel?”

Lucifer glances away. “You rip them apart at a cellular level, making sure to shred the angel inside and not just the vessel they’re hiding in. It takes a lot of power and a lot of focus, but it’s the only way to effectively kill one of us without an angel blade.” He pauses. “Except for Castiel, apparently.”

Rolling in to Stull Cemetery because Sam shouldn’t have to die alone- _did you just Molotov my brother?_ \- Cas exploding into goo right before Lucifer broke Bobby’s neck and beat Dean against the Impala. Lucifer at least has the decency to look mildly ashamed.

“I have a temper.”

“No shit,” Sam mutters. Gabriel opens up the bag, showering them with _eau de decomposition_ , and sticks a finger in it and- 

“Ew, _nasty_! I need to disinfect my _brain_!”

Gabriel looks over, still licking the… person… off his finger. No, that isn’t really better. This day is fucking weird. “Well, I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Good news,” Sam says. 

“This is Raphael.” Gabriel sticks his tongue out and manifests a candy bar. “Blech.”

“That’s what it means,” Dean says. “The note, in the box. It says I’m safe now.”

“And the bad news?” Sam pushes onwards, collapsing into Dean’s desk chair. “Lucifer, any way you can mojo me up some coffee? Last time I asked Gabriel it nearly gave me diabetes.”

“This is not what my Grace was intended for,” Lucifer says, but a steaming cup of coffee in Sam’s favorite mug appears anyways. 

“Bad news,” Gabriel looks over at Lucifer, speaking around a mouthful of chocolate. “Even Mikey doesn’t have enough power to do this to one of us.”

Sam looks from Lucifer to Gabriel. Dean looks from Sam to the archangels. Gabriel and Lucifer study the walls.

“Who does?”

“We have… some things to tell you.”


	10. Hungry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, double chapter day, also known as I'm avoiding my schoolwork.

 

_Castiel_

Perfect. 

Castiel smooths the wrapping paper one final time before leaving his gift in Dean’s room. He spent ages making it perfect. He would have preferred to give Dean something symbolic- Raphael’s eyes, perhaps, or his hands- but that would have required stabbing him, instead. Castiel knows his limits, and he is still unable to manifest an archangel blade. 

This was simpler. This was doable.

_And it was fu~un,_ the monsters in his head hiss. _It was just a SNAP and strawberry jam all over the wall!_

_So delicious,_ a different one rumbles. _We never got to taste archangel before._

_Behave._

_So hungry!_

He can’t see Dean like this. Not until he gets the more unruly souls from Purgatory under control. He’s just… adjusting to having this much power. Were he anything but an angel, it would reduce him to dust. Which, of course, is why Crowley had him take them. 

He is burning up his vessel, but his true form is fine, totally fine. 

_These little children, so good at lying to themselves._

Dean rolls over in his bed, tugging the covers with him, and Cas stops to watch for a long moment. Dean has always been so pure, an idealistic soul that keeps bouncing back time and time again from a life that wants nothing more than to beat him down. The scars of his flesh are nothing more than the sign of survival, that with all life has thrown at him he continues on, learning and growing. 

His soul is radiant. It was even radiant when Castiel found him in Hell, when the guilt weighing him down and the joy of the knife in his hand warred with each other. Dean Winchester was born in the wrong era, a warrior who will do anything to survive in a time of polite facades and silent judgment. He is pure- he would not be the Michael Sword, otherwise.

Castiel only wishes Dean could see his own soul. 

“Go ‘way, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, and Castiel is suddenly very aware of the burns developing across his vessel, faster now that he can’t expend the power to prevent them without tipping off the archangels down the hall. 

“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, pressing two fingers to Dean’s forehead before leaving. 

_Oh, he’ll be sweet. Sweet and tasty._

_Maybe we’ll keep that one around, freeze bits and pieces to have later._

_I bet he tastes like pie._

_We haven’t had a decent meat pie since someone in Purgatory killed the werewolf Sweeney Todd over a territory dispute,_ one sighs wistfully. _We could use his skin as the crust, wouldn’t that be nice?_

_That’s sausage, you idiot!_

He needs to do some good with his power, now. Not that saving Sam and Dean was wrong, but Heaven will be reluctant to accept him as their rightful god immediately after he passed judgment on Raphael. Perhaps he will smite some of those who preach their own poison in the guise of the word of the Lord. 

“All I do, I do for you,” he whispers before he takes flight. 

None will hurt Dean Winchester.He has been hurt by too much already. 

As their new god, Castiel can ensure it.

He steps in the doors of the first chapel, the stained glass refracting colored light across the faces of those present. The images are lovely, but so incredibly incorrect in their depictions of Heaven and his once-brethren. And Jesus did not look like that- he was what they now call Middle-Eastern. Michael permits him and the Apostles free reign to wander Heaven as they please, a roving pack of piety in the middle of angelic clockwork. 

They all look at him with disbelief, these so-called pious folk. They pray to God, to a Father who hears naught, and they claim to believe in the miracles written in the Bible. And yet Castiel stands before them, able to work all of those miracles on his own, and they scream and shy away. 

Burning out the eyes of their lying ministers may have something to do with it.

He bores of that quickly. It is a quick display of power, a weapon of flash and show that doesn’t use much Grace at all. It is a matter of convenience, not rooted in any tradition. 

Angels rarely earn execution. In the annals of Heaven, they have either chosen to Fall, escaping punishment like Anael, or are imprisoned in Heaven like Gadreel. Executions in Heaven are events attended by the entirety of the Host in a silent crowd, wings shifting quietly against one another as they jockey for position. The angel is bound in sanctified rope, half ceremonial and half effective, while a Justice Angel tears their wings off. Then, stripped of all that signifies their former glory, one of the archangels puts a blade through their heart. 

It is a somber reminder that even they are not beyond reproach. 

Humans who need to be executed for the good of Heaven are disposed of in ways that will not draw attention to their demise. Demons, when it is possible, have the full wrath of Heaven brought down on them, laying the land barren and reducing both demon and host to dust. 

This- this requires a special touch. Just desserts, as Gabriel would say. Those who twist the Scripture ought to die by the very words they alter to fit their own agendas. 

_Such righteousness,_ one of them simpers. 

_We’ll teach you better,_ another whispers.

_We know everything._

_We’ve got to know,_ one cackles. _You are what you eat!_

_Hungry, so hungry!_

_Pretty little angel thinks it’s all grown up, These tasty souls will only last so long, mewling child, and then we’ll see how those ragged feathers taste._

_I want it now!_

_Quiet!_

“Enough!” he shouts, winging his way somewhere private, some cemetery that smells like the long-dead with a whiff of gasoline and the spark of a lighter and, against a headstone, the oils of a human hand. Castiel rubs his thumb against the smear of dirt on Calliope Evanston’s headstone- dirt from her own grave, of that he has no doubt, and curls up against the overwhelming assault on his senses. The dying flowers on the grave over there, exhaust fumes and the grinding of metal on metal. And there, fading swiftly, ozone and the tang of Grace. 

_Eheheheheh, it thinks we listen to it!_

_We’re the ones in charge here, featherbrains._

_You just eat your meat and lots of sweets- no more vegetables, we want enough to go around when we get to you._

_It likes burgers,_ one of them purrs. _It likes burgers a lot. All that red meat, nice and juicy._

_It likes them cooked,_ another one shrieks. _Cooked meat! How they ruin everything, these measly little beings. What happened to eating raw lungs like any respectable little monster?_

“ENOUGH!”

Castiel’s voice echoes between the headstones. Nobody on the nearby streets notices. Humans, all of them in their little bubble, who see nothing at all, and yet they are so attached to their little routines and their little belongings. 

_Stop it, don’t eat him yet!_

_Why not?_

_Because I said so, you fools!_

“Go away,” he grits out as they strain against the confines of his vessel, twisting and turning and laughing. 

_You can’t make us, you can’t make us, you can’t make us!_

_Out of its league._

Castiel buries his head in his hands- burns expanding every second, so ugly- and weeps. Tears shimmering with his Grace and the taint of golden souls drip into the grave dirt, his wings twitching weakly as he curls them around himself. 

_Look at it cry!_

_Do you get it now, little angel?_

_Do you?_

_Hungry, please, so hungry._

_We run the show now._

_So play along._

Castiel dabs at his eyes, his glimmering tears gone dark and slimy. 

“I will kill the remaining archangels.”

 

 


	11. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, sorry for the wait, guys! All my EGR classes decided that now, closing in on the end of the semester, was the best time to hand out projects. I haven't even started my roundabout design, so take pity on my soul. And then I got sick. So... life is conspiring against me and I had a kind of plotty chapter to write- I really ought to find some poor beta reader to subject to my rambling writing, but until then you're all stuck with me.   
> Next chapter will be when I get around to it, which could mean tomorrow or could mean not until I have a few hours in the car to plug in my headphones and type on Wednesday.

 

_Sam_

He closes his eyes in the bunker and opens them to a really nice hotel suite. Not cheap small-town nice, where it means no weird stains and a fridge, if he’s lucky, but actual nice. They nice where they don’t have an honor bar, they just put free stuff in the room because it was already hellishly expensive. 

“Hellishly expensive? Heaven’s the one who charges an eternity of good behavior for entrance.” 

Sam wanders over to the balcony. Gabriel is a little more unpredictable, but Lucifer is always to be found there when they invade his dreams. He likes to watch Sam’s subconscious whirl outside of the angel-created space.

“It’s the closest I can be without being inside your head.”

“I thought we talked about the mind reading.”

“Can’t help it,” Lucifer answers, leaning against the railing. “Especially not here.”

Sam joins him, watching the busy cityscape disappear beneath waves lapping at the footings of the buildings. Angels soar above the water, their cries the squawks of seagulls.

“My dreams always get weird when you two walk in them.”

“Seagulls are one of Father’s more irritating space-fillers. If I remember right, Michael made them while trying to prevent Gabriel from getting out of hand.”

Sam glances over. “Wait, really?”

“Mmm, yeah. It was a busy time. This was before Father made the other angels, so it was just the four of us and him. He was making the Leviathans, the ultimate beast just as we were his ultimate celestials, and left us to populate the rest of the world.”

“I made a platypus and then Mikey made me go sit in a corner.” Gabriel drapes himself across Lucifer’s back and blows Sam a kiss. 

“Michael made you sit it a corner after the fifth time you stabbed him with your platypus’ poisonous spurs shouting _Mikey, look at what I made!_ You were an obnoxious fledgling.”

“You say such sweet things!”

Lucifer tries to buck Gabriel off, smiling as Gabriel drags him down into a tickle fight. Sam watches. The angels all focused on the parallels between him and Dean with Lucifer and Michael, the whole rebellious little brother bit, so it’s good to see Lucifer’s other side. Sam’s just learning to be a big brother to Adam, who isn’t entirely sure if he always wants them but he’s stuck because they’re blood. Lucifer’s had an eternity and it’s never more apparent than when he plays indulgent big brother to Gabriel. 

They’re stunning, the both of them. Not just their vessels, though Sam doesn’t have any argument there, but in the special something that shines through in his waking hours and the few times when they’ve let him see their true forms. For some reason, they want to be around him, too. Cas and the other angels get distracted, spend hours on end staring into nothing or disappearing without a word. Lucifer and Gabriel are always there and even when they get wrapped up in each other, they never forget to reach out for him. 

It’s addictive, that kind of attention. 

Especially since Sam’s spent most of his life being told to blend in with the crowd, take what he’s given and don’t say a word about it.

Lucifer and Gabriel break apart, laughter broken by panting for air they don’t need, and Gabriel shifts across the room to tackle Sam down to the floor. He lets Gabriel take him down, unsurprised when the floor is soft and slightly bouncy to break his fall. This may be his dream, but they mind all the variables to keep him comfortable. 

“What do you want, Sam?”

“To wake up and not have the world ending around us. Again.”

“We can work on that in the morning,” Lucifer tells him. 

“What do you want _now_? Movie night, hiking in the Himalayas, teaching Lucifer to play arcade games…”

“Do you really want to gamble against the Devil, little brother? Last I checked, we weren’t in Georgia and you don’t have a soul for me to steal.”

“A quiet evening,” Sam interrupts before they can poke at each other too much. “Or night, or whatever this is when you invade my dreams.”

“A quiet evening,” Gabriel muses aloud, and then he snaps. There’s no flap of wings or rustle of feathers like there would be in the real world- the dream just reshapes itself around them. The bed sags under their weight, the sheets draping over them and the covers settling with a heavier flop. Gabriel snuggles against Sam’s side, a brand of heat everywhere they touch, while Lucifer stretches over the other half of the bed. 

“Tell me a story?”

“Hmm, what’s an interesting one. Let’s go with… Sleipnir. Did you know, Lucy, that we’re capable of carrying a child to term in a female form?”

“You didn’t,” Lucifer replies, aghast. “We aren’t to go populating the world with Nephilim, Gabriel.”

“Does it count as a Nephilim if it’s half archangel, half pagan?” Gabriel pauses. “And a horse?”

Lucifer groans and buries his head in the pillows. 

“What? Angrboda was upset with me after I let Fenrir bite Tyr’s hand off, I got creative, and Odin objected to the price for building Asgard’s walls.” Gabriel frowns. “Come to think about it, Angie didn’t exactly like my little tryst with Svadilfari. She said some not-very-nice things about Sleipnir, considering that he’s a very handsome eight-legged grey horse.” 

“Just stop talking,” Lucifer mumbles into the pillow. 

“What? Sleipnir’s a cutie. Shame he took more after Svadilfari than I- Odin’s been riding him into battle for centuries. I go visit Fenrir, Jormungandr, and Hel when I can, but Angie’s not terribly fond of my visits.”

“Don’t sire any Nephilim, Father told us,” Lucifer continues, still muffled by his pillow. “The children of archangels will be far too powerful, he said, so what does Gabriel do? Sires four of them.”

“Three, technically,” Gabriel offers. “I bore Sleipnir. Oh, and maybe Nari and Vali, when I was with Sigyn, but she hooked up with Baldur around the same time so I can’t be sure.” Gabriel shrugs, throwing a leg over Sam’s, while Lucifer coughs something that sounds a lot like _manwhore_. 

It catches Sam by surprise, occasionally, how much of the legends are true. Not that he doesn’t believe the lore, but when he looks at Gabriel with his wings and his candy and his golden eyes, he doesn’t think about the papers he wrote on Norse mythology for class. He sees angel, but that’s because he’s seen them in their true forms and he’s seen them with wings more often than that. 

“You’re just jealous that I’ve had more fun than you,” Gabriel tells Lucifer. 

“I’m the one who’s been inside Sam,” Lucifer retorts and Sam’s cheeks flame red. They don’t do that, much as the archangels have hinted that they might want to. 

They won’t want him anymore once they’ve gotten everything. He’s got to leave a little mystery if he wants to keep them around and, dreams of a normal life be damned, he _likes_ the two of them. 

Lucifer lifts his head from the pillow, turning in against Sam’s side, the same sort of sadness in his eyes as when he first broke out of the Cage to find Sam hurting. Shit. Sam flinches, which only succeeds in catching Gabriel’s attention. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, turning his face to the other side to look over the top of Gabriel’s head. Gabriel tilts his head up to look at him for a short moment before curling himself tighter around Sam’s side. 

“Lucy,” Gabriel breathes, the barest brush of air against Sam’s throat with the word. 

“I said I would never lie to you, Sam,” Lucifer bites out all in a rush. “That hasn’t changed. That will never _ever_ change.”

Sam stays silent. There’s nothing he can say that his own mind won’t give away as a lie. 

“Lucy,” Gabriel repeats, a little firmer this time. 

“He… He thinks we’re going to leave him, Gabe.” Lucifer lapses into Enochian at the end as his voice breaks. “That he’s not good enough for us.”

“Lucifer,” Gabriel warns, reaching over Sam’s side for his brother. 

“You are _everything._ I waited an eternity for you, isolated in my own head, and I would do it again if it meant you’d see yourself the way we do. We have the entire world available to us, all of Heaven and the few parts of Hell that are worth it, and we choose to stay here because you’re here.” Lucifer lapses into a tense silence, resting a cool palm against Sam’s cheek for a moment before dragging it up into his hair. Gabriel inches closer, his grip around Sam’s ribs just starting to verge on… not painful, not in the dream, but too warm, almost like the touch of his true form. 

“Why?”

Neither of them answer. Lucifer combs through Sam’s hair in the same absentminded way he does during a long night of research, scraping his nails against Sam’s scalp. It takes all of Sam’s anger to keep him from relaxing into Lucifer’s touch- the angel knows every quirk of Sam’s body and is not above quietly abusing his knowledge.

“Because you’re more than the sum of your destiny,” Gabriel finally offers. “Angels are creatures of obedience and so are most humans. The first time I saw you and your brother, I knew exactly who you were. Your soul bears incredible similarity to Lucifer’s Grace, for those who know what to look for, and few know better than I.”

“Destiny again.” _The only reason anyone cares about Dean and I._

Lucifer hisses his displeasure into the back of Sam’s neck.

“You want us to prove it? Fine. We’ll prove it.”

“One lifetime with archangels perched on your shoulders, coming right up. Lucy, how do you feel about red and spangly robes?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, just give me time.”

Just like that, the tension snaps as the archangels debate the value of red and spangly fabric- Gabriel- versus hot pink and glittery- Lucifer. Gabriel bounces up to sit perched on the foot of the bed, wings extended to keep his balance, changing the curtains to suit his argument. Sam watches them banter, slowly relaxing into Lucifer’s touch and falling into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

Even there, deep enough asleep that there is no thought, there is the fire and ice glimmering at the edges of waking and the whisper of Enochian. _Yours,_ it whispers, _always_.

 


	12. Those Who Whisper

 

_Castiel_

He has to warn Dean.

_Kill the archangels._

They’re so strong, too strong— _killing Raphael felt good, I bet the others will taste better_ — and they whisper at him all the time. He can hear the Host panicking, held in Heaven by their fear more than any orders Michael may have given, and between the jagged songs of his brothers are the discordant whispers in his head. 

Do they fear him?

_You? Upstart._

_Like they would fear a mutated angel breaking at the seams._

_You’re no God._

_You’re one of the monsters._

_Well, we are, at least._

Castiel is old enough to have been brought up under the wings of the archangels. They were taught that they were the bringers of good in their Father’s Creation, that they were the order in the chaos. Lucifer questioned the order they upheld and was imprisoned for it. Gabriel vanished, and not long after a vessel was discovered with traces of his Grace in it and the burned-out echo of his wings on the ground.

And Creation continued, and they maintained the order, and one by one Naomi called to them and one by one they… stopped thinking about it. Not exactly forgetting- angels were not designed to forget and only the command of an archangel can force them to, but just not thinking about them. 

Castiel can think about it now. He is more powerful than Naomi’s tricks.

_We are more powerful than pitiful little angels with their little buzzing tools._

_The blood, so sweet…_

The archangels were wrong.

_Of course, they’re stupid angels who think they’re better than us just because they’re older._

Heaven is not the bringers of good. They are the enforcers of an old way, and they are wrong. 

Castiel can fix that.

He will fix that.

_But first?_

But first he must eradicate the old order, and that means Michael. There may be no challenges to his control over Heaven. Angels are no better than sheep without a shepherd, and in Michael’s absence they will flock to Gabriel and even Lucifer. 

So they must die as well.

In fact, it would be prudent to destroy them first. They are oddly attached to Sam Winchester, he can hear it whispered through the Host, and their destruction would likely hurt Sam. And what hurts Sam will hurt Dean. 

Best to give them time to grieve first. They will be needed in the time of turmoil while Heaven accepts its new Lord.

Castiel closes his eyes, reaching out for the little bit of him that is still an angel, that bit that can find the archangels. Every army needs to be able to find their leaders. One feels quite distant- the flame of Michael’s Grace in Heaven, controlling the Host, a fragment of his Grace left protecting a human elsewhere. The others are tight together, the warmth of Gabriel’s Grace and the cold brightness of Lucifer’s. 

Castiel wills himself to move without spreading his wings.

The Men of Letters bunker coalesces around him, walls shimmering with all the warding built into their very structure. This is the hallway adjacent to the library, if he remembers correctly, in the heart of the fraction the Winchesters use. The sound of what Castiel believes to be Led Zeppelin filters through the halls, accompanied by Dean’s voice and the hiss of hot oil in a pan. Dean yelps, swearing, and Castiel almost goes to him-

_Remember, remember, Heaven has hurt him, and they will do so again._

_Take your revenge for all the hurt._

_You know you want to._

_Make it so he is never hurt again._

_You don’t like hearing him hurt, do you?_

He doesn’t want Dean to hurt.

That’s why he has to do this.

“You alright, Dean?” Sam calls from inside the library, half caught on the end of a laugh. “No, _stop that_ Gabriel, some of us need to _breathe_ and I swear to God that I’ll haunt your feathery ass if you tickle me to death.”

“Can we keep Daddy out of this? You know he’s not listening anyways.” Gabriel complains.

“Don’t be like that, Sam,” Lucifer says at the same time. “I’d only bring you back, after all.”

“Knife slipped. Nothing a little time won’t heal.” Dean shouts back over the sound of the kitchen sink.

“You sure?”

“Last time I let one of them heal a papercut, I didn’t hear the end of it for a solid two weeks. Yeah, I’m sure.” Dean returns to his singing at the beginning of the next verse, and Castiel listens for a moment before easing forward to the library door.

Sam is sitting in an armchair, a book open on the table next to him, but he watches Cas enter with a sort of determined apprehension. Lucifer sits on the arm of the chair, supporting himself with one arm around the back of the chair, wings fully visible and curving protectively around Sam. Gabriel is sprawled at Sam’s feet, deceptively still, his own wings barely shimmering on the edge of this dimension, playing with his archangel blade.

_What?_

He isn’t sure if the thought is his own.

“Don’t move,” Lucifer commands in Enochian, truly _commands_ with all the force of his Grace behind it like Castiel’s never heard from the archangel. Lucifer is all about free will, he never gave commands like that, the ones that compel obedience by a fluke of their Creation. 

Were Castiel still an angel, it would bind him from so much as reaching out with his Grace. As is, the command washes over him, a net of ancient magic that catches against his skin and sparks. 

He lifts his hand.

It doesn’t move.

Sam breathes a relieved sigh. “Nature wins out this time. Lucifer, you owe Gabriel one of those massive rainbow lollipops, a two liter of Diet Coke, and a pack of Mentos. And no, you don’t get to do that in the bunker.”

Castiel snarls, fighting the compulsion, and the souls push at the confines of his skin.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Cassie,” Gabriel warns. “No matter how powerful, you’re still an angel and Lucy can hold that compulsion forever.”

“But you’re not meant to hold that much power,” Dean says from behind him, and Castiel wants to turn but the compulsion won’t let him. There’s the click of a lighter and the acrid scent of holy fire as the circle lights around him, and then Dean eases around to join his brother. 

“Under the condition that you will not so much as attempt to either cross or escape the circle of holy fire, I permit you to move.” Lucifer words it very precisely in Enochian, leaving no room for Castiel to work in.

_Not fair!_

_Kill kill kill KILL!_

“I will fix my vessel once I have taken control of Heaven.”

“Oh, Cassie,” Gabriel chides. “Don’t delude yourself. Lucy and I can see you through the vessel, you know, and so can Sammy to a degree.”

Dean and Castiel’s gazes snap to Sam. Gabriel continues like he hasn’t noticed.

“It isn’t your vessel that’s burning up, Cassie, it’s you. They’re destroying the angel, and without either you or… Jimmy to hold that body together, it’s burning away.”

“You have to send them back.” This comes from Dean, stepping up to the very edge of the holy fire. “Please, Cas.”

_No no no no no no NO!_

“I did this to protect you,” Castiel bites out at the souls scream in his head.

Lucifer shrugs. “Then we’ll make you.”

Dean steps through the fire. 

“Injuring or acting with the intent to do so with regards to Dean Winchester is also prohibited,” Gabriel tosses out as Dean steps through the holy fire. 

No. The souls writhe within him, scratching at the surface, and the angry ones whisper dark words in his ear. He can’t be this close to Dean, not until he’s dealt with them. And, as human as it seems, he did not want Dean to see the extent of the damage to his vessel. 

He did this all for Dean.

Dean takes a deep breath, then leans in close. “Cas. I know you’re in there, buddy, and I need you to listen to me. This isn’t you. You fight on the side of humanity for everything that’s right, and this will hurt people. You’re killing people.”

“Those who twist the word of the Scriptures are monsters. You destroy monsters.”

Dean steps back, out of the circle. “Not like that. There are lines that we don’t cross.”

No.

Not Dean.

All of this- all of the strain of the souls inside him, their emotions pushing and pulling at the very fabric of his self, the strong ones whispering their dark words. They whisper about their plans for the world and things they tried to do in the days before angels. He tries not to think about it, but he knows what is inside him, laughing and pushing. 

He did this all for Dean, and now he’s being rejected for it.

Gabriel and Lucifer watch him impassively while Sam and Dean take a private moment, judging him with all the weight of their millennia. There’s a little piece of him that flinches away from their gazes. He is a child created by an absent Father, and they are the the guides of his youth. They don’t say a word, just watch, and Lucifer slides into Sam’s abandoned spot to card his fingers through Gabriel’s wings as he extends them. 

Not a threat, that subtle menace is more of Zachariah’s forte. No, this is a reminder. 

_They don’t need you._

_None of them._

_That’s why you should kill them all._

_And then we eat them!_

_Shush!_

“The eclipse has passed,” Castiel blurts out.

Lucifer tilts his head. “We can move far more easily through time than you, Castiel. The eclipse is never more than a step away.”

“See, Cassie, this is simple. No matter what, the souls are going back to Purgatory, and Daddy’s little mistakes from the wrong side of Creation with them. You can do this willingly and give yourself a chance to salvage Dean’s whatever the hell you guys have, or we can force you to do it.” Gabriel turns to Lucifer, wings vanishing as he twists on to his back. “I think Mikey would be really interested in this, right? I mean, I know we agreed that Michael didn’t need to know anything, but I fear for my life if we have to force Cassie to do anything.”

“I’ll do it.”

_Like you can get rid of us that easily._

_You li~ike us._

_Like the way we make you feel._

_Not very angelic of you, but then again, you were never a very good angel._

The archangels bare their teeth in the rictus of a smile. “Good.”

 

***

 

Castiel takes one last look at Dean before he steps in front of the sigil. Dean’s jaw is tight and he’s angry, but buried below that is a layer of hurt that it kills Castiel to see. The sigil shimmers at then souls pour out, a barrage of emotion and feeling that leaves him horribly empty inside, feeling the wounds from their claws and teeth on the inside of his Grace.

The sigil snaps shut as the eclipse passes and he staggers, caught by the cuff of a wing against his back. 

_Thought you’d get rid of us that easily?_

“Cas?”

“No,” Lucifer says, wing snapping away from Cas to wrap around Sam, his blade in hand. “No, no, no.”

“Lucifer, what’s going on? Gabriel?”

_We’re starving._

_I feel like having chicken tonight._ They tear into his insides, rending his Grace and stretching themselves in its place, and black spreads across the skin of his wrists, tracing through his veins. 

“They clung on,” he pants out, sinking to his knees. 

“Who?” Dean asks. Castiel’s hearing fizzes in and out as they shred everything in their path, cutting off Sam fighting with possessive wings and Gabriel stepping across to Dean’s side of the room.

“Leviathans,” Lucifer states, and then his brothers are gone and Castiel is kneeling in an abandoned warehouse, alone. 

Almost alone.

_We run the show now,_ they whisper, and then his vessel stands and cracks his neck without Castiel moving a muscle. _It’s gonna be a wild ride, birdseed._

 


End file.
